A Few Minutes
by UnsuaveOffTheMattress
Summary: Father-Son Hurt/Comfort with rating for hardcore blood and gore and angst for days. Hurt!Dean, Protective!John, One-Shot.


I know, I know.

WHAT?! UNSUAVE?! YOU'RE STILL ALIVE?!

Yep, I'm still alive..._but I'm barely breathin'._

This is just something small for people who love this relationship as much as I do (not like that-don't get it twisted).

Enjoy!

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A Few Minutes

John knows exactly what to do from years and years of things that have been just the same, but there's something mortifying about seeing Dean on the asphalt bruised, broken, and spitting blood as he twitches in this pre-convulsion, serious concussion sort of way. The blood pouring in a steady stream from his mouth is mixed with a strange foam, like he's rabid. He doesn't seem to notice any of it, which is probably the most shocking part. He just sits there, leaning against his father's shoulder shaking and moaning heavy. His arms are pulled close to his chest, both scraped up and gushing red from in between the torn fabric of his jacket. The right is in worse shape than the left, contorted in such a way that John has to cover it so that Dean doesn't get sick from looking...again. The left is pretty bad, but so is everything else, red and black and swollen and shredded mercilessly. It's terrifying to say the least, so terrifying that he can't do anything but sit there, hold Dean tight in his arms and fall completely apart. He sits between his car and his son, hushing him through the tears and holding a hand below his mouth so that this odd mix of saliva and blood and god knows what else doesn't drip all over his chin. Dean isn't fully seizing, but he's close, having these conscious jerks every fifteen seconds or so. They get worse each time, and become that much more startling. Dean's trying to talk makes it that much worse, his words all slurred and strung together like he's wasted. "Just a few more minutes." John tells him every time he makes even the slightest sound. "Shh, just a few more minutes."

It's only been five minutes at most, but it feels like it's been forever, each breath getting raspier and each movement getting less voluntary. He fears the worst, but tells himself not to think about it, just to be there, to hold Dean as tight as he'll allow because even though he can't think straight enough to remember his own name, he knows something's wrong, and is more than likely a billion times more scared.

"Just a few more minutes." John repeats, tightening an arm around Dean's waist as his upper body jerks violently. "Just a few more minutes." His other hand moves to gently graze Dean's jawline, the faint stubble tickling his fingertips. "Just a few more and then it'll all be better, okay?"

Dean's left hand moves down to meet his father's, and with hot and bloody fingertips he tries to take a hold of it. John takes the hint and holds Dean's hand, squeezing it despite how sticky it is. His breathing grows quicker, more labored, and he emits these higher pitched little sounds like he's whimpering softly.

"It's okay," John tells him. "You're gonna be okay."

Dean feels himself slipping under, and wants more than anything to let his father know, but can't seem to find the words. He's seeing triple, everything coming in and out of focus as his limbs fall numb. He knows what to say then, but can't get his tongue to cooperate, to utter a few syllables of warning, of closure, to verify that he's got some sense left in him. Something tells him he's only got a few seconds, so he breathes in heavy and manages a soft, scarily immature, "'Kay," before letting himself fall out.

John feels him go limp and moves that hand around his waist up to Dean's chest to make sure he's still breathing. It's harsh, but it's something, and he'll take anything. He feels immense swelling under the palm of his hand and safely assumes it's from a fracture or six, just what he doesn't need. "Oh, Dean," he means to sigh, but his son's name comes out as more of a sob, a shattered, _just keep breathing_ sob. He thinks back to the last time he held his son this way, and realizes that it was before all the gore, all the stress, all that comes along with this lifestyle. It was before any of this, and even though it was somewhere around twenty years ago, he remembers perfectly holding a little Dean tight and looking down at his rosy cheeks as he slept soundly. He smiled then, so happy that this little ball of energy had finally fallen asleep that it was like bliss. He starts to smile now, but only out of nostalgia, and it's short lived, seeing as it takes a few seconds at most to come to the conclusion that he'd do anything to have that happy little ball of energy instead of this mangled, horror movie corpse in his arms.

John glances down this near desolate and pitch dark road they're sitting upon, desperate for those flashing lights and almost unbearable sirens he usually rejects. Dean starts to shake again, but this time it's more shivering, rather than twitching. It's a warning, and he takes it as a cue to take his hands off of Dean before it really starts. He reluctantly puts his jacket down on the asphalt and lays Dean down atop it at such an angle that he won't hit anything when he starts to thrash and convulse. He backs up a little and keeps his focus on the road, knowing that there's nothing he can do besides let it happen. "Just a few more minutes." He says, reminding himself more than anything else. "Just a few more minutes."


End file.
